Memoirs of a Frenchman
by iFluffRaver
Summary: You may have heard, mes amis, of the tales of dear Gilbert Beilschmidt in his diary. Well now, chers lecteurs, I wish to share with you my experiences. Tales of war and peace, love, rejection, hilarity and woe. These are the memoirs of the gorgeous moi.
1. For Old Times' Sake

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, as much as I would like to. So please, O brothers, do not sue your Humble Narrator for wishing to use Himaruya-sensei's most wonderful creations in a work of fiction of her own. (Or Anthony Burgess' most delightful language of nadsat in the author's notes)**_

_**AN: This is the first instalment of the series 'Memoirs of a Frenchman', a collection of one-shots about the life and times of the gorgeous Francis Bonnefoy himself. It is dedicated to my dear droogs, Gilbert, Antonio and Roderich, who all appear here. Yes, O brothers, I love you all very much and hope you enjoy this and the chapters soon to come.**_

_**This one is one-sided FrUK, but they won't all be romance. The series will consist of FrUK, slight FranCan, slight FranEveryone and just some good ol' Bad Touch Trio times.**_

_**PS: It is best to imagine the narrative in a French accent… just for kicks. :P**_

Memoirs of a Frenchman I

For Old Times' Sake

It started in the eighteenth century.

Non, non, forgive me, mes chéris, for I lie. It was well before the time of revolutions and wars and unrest. It was well before the time of chivalry and knights and damsels in distress. It was well before the time of crusades and codpieces and chamber pots. It was the year 1000 AD, mes amis, that I discovered that I was in love.

A shocking concept to comprehend, non? For you may believe that your gorgeous narrator had always been one to flit about from love affair to love affair like a beautiful butterfly, unaffected by such petty feelings that held others down. Well if that is the case, chers lecteurs, then you believe the lie. The mask, if you will. The pretence of absolute confidence in one's self. A very useful trick I have been using since the dawn of time itself – or at least since I was brought into this fabulous world, which is basically the start of when it got interesting anyway – and have perfected after years of contact with my dear friend, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

A scourge to humanity, non? A disgustingly rude individual who most countries avoid at all costs. But this hooligan happens to be one of my best friends, and without him, I fear this gorgeousness would have not become what it is today.

But it is not my dear albino that I speak of when I mention l'amour. Oh, non, mes amis, for he is far too rude and far too obnoxious for my tastes. A dear friend, oui, and one that I am not averse to spending most of my time with, but he is simply not the person who dominates my dreams at night; the person who has had my head spinning for the past thousand years.

I could have anyone, could I not? I _have_ had quite a few, haven't I? Indeed, I am not the most dedicated of lovers, nor do I try to remain chaste for mon véritable amour. I have been 'around the block', as some English might say, a considerable number of times, as has my dear one. Anyone I wish falls at my feet as soon as I bat my beautiful blonde eyelashes or turn on my irresistible French charm, they are like melting butter in my presence. Oui, I may be a bit presumptuous, but I am gorgeous, non? So why, mes belles, does the one person who seems to be immune to my allures also happen to be the one I most wish to fall for me?

Alas, mes petits, the one I seem to have fallen head over heels for is indeed my dear arch-enemy.

Angleterre.

* * *

And that is how you find the deliciously handsome hero of our tale presently. Staring at a most interesting section of wall over Allemagne's head as he tries to regain some sort of order – to no avail, I might add – while his little Italian lover tugs at his sleeves complaining of some such misfortune or other. Most probably about the lack of pasta – or any other edible food – at our host's house. Staring at the wall, I might add, so as not to get distracted by said host, who as you may have guessed from my dig at the less-than-appetising cuisine, was none other than the bane of my existence himself, Angleterre.

I am not a jealous man.

Pardon yet again, mes amis, for I lie a second time. I _am _a jealous man. A _very_ jealous man. And I do not like it when other people take what I want. I did not like it when Allemagne took Alsace-Loraine. I did not like it when Antoine – another of my dearest friends – took mon petit tomate, Romano. I did not like it when Angleterre himself took the annoying little Amérique when we first set foot on the New World – although I have recently decided that I do not mind anymore, he is welcome to the little brat – or my dear, dear, dear Mathieu. But never, mes chéris, have I ever felt such utter _loathing_ for another nation, as I do for Alfred F Jones.

Les Etats-Unis d'Amérique himself.

For although my dear Angleterre is no blushing virgin – trust me, I've been there – no one has ever captured his heart quite like the bratty enfant. There have only been two people that Angleterre has ever been faithful to, and I hate them both with a passion most dreadful. Although, it is rude to speak ill of the dead, is it not? And so I must reign in my fury when referring to her majesty Queen Elizabeth I, the virgin queen. Virgin my gorgeous French ass. She was married to her country, alright. If only the rest of them knew exactly what she meant when she said that. Non, non, I know I shouldn't spread nasty little rumours, and I don't exactly have any _proof_ that such occurred, but I witnessed their relationship, and it was not healthy for a nation to be so close to a human. The adoration in his eyes when he looked upon her. There was no malice, no irritation, no sarcasm in his tone. It was quite sickening. It was not _him._

But alas, I am straying from the point, non? That tale is for another time, perhaps.

What I am trying to say is that it was taking all my will power not to give that little gosse who was taking all my Briton's attention with his nasal squawking a good smack in that angelic face of his.

It was so _painfully_ obvious. Even the oblivious Italie was aware of their attraction to each other. The only ones who seemed unwilling to admit there was something between them was the two idiots in question.

"Would you two please stop releasing sexual tension and pay attention? We are in the middle of a meeting."

Angleterre glared at me in his usual fashion. Those magnificent eyebrows – do not tell anyone I ever called them that – knitting together like two furry caterpillars kissing on his face. Sometimes I question why exactly I love him…

"Stay out of this, you bloody frog!"

I merely sighed and rolled my eyes. Angleterre could be so childish sometimes. It was cute.

"Iggy~! He's right, you're disrupting the meeting!"

I swear I felt my eye twitch. That voice; that horrible, screeching voice that grated on your eardrums. One day, I will ring that boy's neck.

"Shut up, you wanker! You're the one that started this!"

"I think I was perfectly justified in insulting your cooking."

"You bastard! I'll teach you to offend my Mumsy's recipe!"

"I don't think the recipe had anything to do with it, I'm pretty sure it was the way you cooked it that made it bad."

"Why, you! You're not too old for a spank, you know!"

Of course, by this point, they had both risen from their seats, Angleterre with a flushed look of pure rage and Amérique with a cheeky grin so obnoxious that even I was beginning to feel the urge to wipe it off. The whole room had gone silent, as usual, and was now staring pointedly at the two absolute fools making a scene and completely forgetting about whatever oh-so-interesting topic we were meant to be talking about. I could not resist the chance to add my contribution to the argument.

"I'm sure he's not, mon cher, but maybe save that for later, non? We do not wish to know about your perverted paedophilic kicks."

Now that, _that_, mes amis, kicked things off quite nicely.

Angleterre seemed to temporarily forget his boy-toy in favour of punching me quite hard in the jaw.

"Now, now, mon ami, calm down. We don't want to ruin the gorgeousness that is my beautiful face, do we?"

And in reply, I received another hit.

Ever the good coward, I knew when to take my leave.

* * *

And so the world conference continued without yours truly. A devastating concept, non? For who could survive for longer than five minutes without my beautiful presence in their life. But alas, I found that I could not return to the meeting, for – contrary to popular belief – I do not have a death wish, and Angleterre was not in the mood for my not-so-subtle flirting right now. Not that he was ever in the mood, mes bonbons, but for the first time in quite a while, I myself found that I was not up for a little playful philandering. I am sure you appreciate the seriousness of my situation now, non? For I am _always_ playing with people's emotions. I never tire of messing with the affairs of the heart of another. The choice, the pick-up, the conversation, the end result; it thrills me. What can I say? I am French.

But at the current moment in time, cher lecteurs, I wished to be left alone with my thoughts.

Which was not an easy task when a certain Prussian man seemed to be set on following you around the streets of London, _very_ conspicuously.

"Gilbert, why do you insist on making such a fool of yourself? I am aware of your presence, mon ami, there is no need for the appalling attempt at espionage."

Said albino, who had been peeking out at me from behind a tree in Green Park – my present choice of place to mope – now pouted at me and walked out like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Gilbird cheeping away moodily on his head. Why that chick stayed with such a lunatic, I shall never know.

"Hey! Don't diss my awesome spy skills! You're just jealous 'cause you can't look as epic as me when you're being all depressed!" He placed a hand rather forcefully on my shoulder. "Seriously, Francis, your face looks like a very un-awesome cow's backside."

I stuck my tongue out at him for that. Immature, I know, but I couldn't help the way I acted in front of the Prussian, he just had that effect on me. Just one look at his smirk was enough to take me back to the good old days and the glory of the Bad Touch Trio in all its piratical might.

"Gil, mon chéri, may I ask why you are here? You do know that this is London, non?"

He deadpanned at that. "Well no scheisse, Frenchie, of course I know where I am! And I am here because I knew that the meeting would get boring without my awesomeness, so I hid in the back of West's car."

Why I even had to ask, I will never know.

Sighing, I shook my head. "That is all very well, mon ami, but why are you _here_? Following me like some sort of imbécile."

"I came, mein Liebling, because I wanted to cheer you up!"

"Well you can go right back to wherever it is you came from, mon petit copain, because I do not need 'cheering up'."

"I beg to differ, Freundin!" I winced a little at the obvious dig at my appearance. "Let the awesome me bring a smile back to that pretty little face of yours!"

If I had learnt anything over centuries of friendship, it was that I could never win when he was in this mood. So, sighing, I resigned to my fate and let him fling his arm around my shoulders. "Whatever you say, plus cher."

For a while, we walked under the shade of the trees, Gilbert rambling on about something or other that he did to Autriche the other day which had resulted in him getting hit on the head by the fiery little Hungarian's frying pan. Why he didn't just come out and say that he only wound poor Roderich to see Hongrie, I will never know. But we all have different ways of showing affection, non? And Gilbert's way is pissing them off.

"Hey, Francis! Let's get ice cream!"

He could be such a child at times. It was hard to remember that this nation had suffered the things that he had. One would never be able to tell this was the same country that was starved and ripped to shreds by that bâtard Russie during the cold war unless they were to look at his bare back and witness the scarring – or would a more appropriate phrase be 'lack of flesh'? For that, I have never forgiven Ivan Braginski, and I never will. There was nothing more heart breaking than to see this cheerily obnoxious, larger than life Prussian crawling through the dirt to reach his brother, blood flowing from unseen wounds and thin as a rake. Why he did not die, I will never know.

But I will remain ever grateful to whoever was out there looking after him for doing so. I love him dearly and can honestly say that if the world was to end, I would very much like to be in his presence at the time. His smirk could lift any spirits, as I was finding at that current time. And his face, lit up with excitement at the prospect of ice cream, raised my heart enough to conjure a small smile.

"Bien, bien, mon ami, ice cream it is."

The stall was small, but there was an array of flavours on display. Not quite as many as one might find on the streets of Paris, but enough for a certain albino to take ten minutes choosing which one he wanted. I was slightly disappointed by the lack of sorbets on offer, for I fancied something a little more refreshing that the usual, thick, British cream treat. So I went for the next most refreshing thing, chocolat à la menthe, or as I believe the English would say 'Mint Choc Chip'.

I knew that this was Gilbert's favourite flavour also, so why it was taking so long for him to pick was a mystery to me.

"I can't decide. Can I have three scoops?"

I laughed a little at the adorable expression on his face.

When the girl behind the display nodded, his eyes glinted with such animosity that even I was taken aback.

While he was deciding which flavours to finally get, I turned my attention to the sweet smiling girl that was waiting patiently for his order. She was quite cute, with big brown eyes and auburn hair tied up in two bunches either side of her head. I judged her age as about sixteen, she could not have been much older, but when I sense an opportunity for some harmless fun, I just cannot resist.

I mean, really, mes amis, one mustn't wallow in self-pity for too long, non? It is tres unattractive.

"A fine day we are having, non, ma petite fleur?" The blush adorning her freckled cheeks made it all the more tempting to continue.

"Why yes, s-sir, it is." She gave me a small smile, before looking down at her hands.

"A pity that such a delightful English rose as yourself should be working here and not out enjoying the sunshine with a good companion." Turning up the charm, I winked at her and received a very satisfying giggle for my efforts.

"I don't mind, sir. I really don't have anyone special to spend the time with."

"Truly? I am shocked, Mademoiselle, that such a beauty as yours should go without being claimed." Ooh, I really am a devil, but already my mood was improving.

I heard Gilbert chuckle beside me, and finally realised why he was taking so much time over his choice.

Well, what can I say, cher lecteurs, he knows me too well.

"I think I'm ready, kleine Fräulein."

And of course, he had to ruin my fun.

Once the young assistant's attention was drawn away from me, I licked the dripping ice cream from my fingers. Glancing over at my companion, I could see that he, too, was having a little fun of his own, winking and adding German endearments to his speech and such; the girl's feminine instincts at once being drawn towards the fluffy, yellow object atop his mass of white hair. We truly were a couple of old perverts.

After eventually asking for no less than seven scoops of ice cream – each of them precariously balanced on top of the other – Gilbert and I wandered over to an empty bench to finish our sweets.

"Well, you seem a bit perkier; I knew a good flirt would sort you out, Pervertieren."

"You didn't seem all that bothered about having a go yourself, pervertir."

We laughed against the sodden cones that were beginning to droop. Quickly finishing my own, I noticed that the Prussian beside me was losing control of the tower of ice cream in his hand. I shook my head slightly and leaned over to take a lick myself. I was somewhat reluctant to do so, though, as he had chosen a rather odd mix of flavours. I myself would have never have put banana, chocolate, mint, strawberry, raspberry, toffee and bubble gum altogether. To be honest, chers amis, I would never even touch that disgusting 'bubble gum' flavour on its own, but I saw that he was in need of assistance, and the overall taste wasn't too bad.

He whimpered in disappointment as a great blob of banana fell to the ground. It landed with a 'splat' and dispersed quite impressively, creating a delightful yellow pattern on the path. He was very, very lucky that it did not get on my brand new Louis Vuitton trousers that I had custom made the week previous. He was quite close to getting a rather hard slap.

Gilbert lapped up the rest of his ice cream before it could escape.

I glanced around the park as my dear Prusse licked his hand clean and rested his other arm over the top of the bench around my shoulders. There were couples holding hands and taking romantic walks in the glorious light of the September afternoon, while others were lying on blankets strewn across the grass, basking in the sun and hoping for the closest to a tan you could get in England. There were children dragging disgruntled looking parents down the paths, demanding ice cream or chocolate or some other sweet item of confectionary.

It was all very nostalgic, mes chéris, looking upon such scenes. I nudged Gilbert in the ribs and laughed softly. "Do you remember when we used to bring Allemagne, Mathieu and Romano out here for them to see Amérique when he was at Angleterre's house?"

"Do I?" The albino barked, "How could I forget Artie's face when we brought Amerika home covered from head to foot in mud and asking what a lesbian was? He didn't speak to us for six months!" And that, mes amis, had us laughing so hard we were clutching our stomachs and uselessly trying to wipe away tears of mirth from our eyes.

"It was not as good as the time we gave our petits lapins 'the talk', non? He gave me a black eye that lasted for two weeks!"

It was about then that I questioned why we were not making trouble. We were two of the most mischievous pirates of all time, and yet here we were laughing on a park bench over something that happened centuries ago.

"Where is Antoine? He should be with us disrupting the peace! This is not Bad Touch Trio behaviour at all. We are acting like old men, non?"

Gilbert's eyes seemed to light up at that suggestion. Oui, oui, mes chers, this was to be an exciting day after all.

"Let's make that meeting actually worth going to, ja? They can't be having much fun without us!"

We needed no more encouragement to return to the Houses of Parliament – so originally named, non? – and relive the good old days. Of course, we would not be us if we had not kicked over a couple of bins and written the odd phrase on the walls of dear Angleterre's beloved capital, would we? And so we left the place looking decidedly more gorgeous, what with my illustrations of beautiful roses and every so often a 'Merde mon hamster a meilleur goût que les fish and chips' and an 'Arthur Kirkland is the biggest whore in Europe'. Of course, I was to be beaten by Gilbert's many penises with 'Gilbert Beilschmidt's five meters' beside them all. It was only a little vandalism, non? And I was feeling much better.

I would be well out of the country by the time Angleterre saw it… and maybe it would be wise of me to get out of Europe altogether…

But for now, my delinquency meter was by no means full, and so we continued on to the delightful building that holds the most boring meetings in the world. Trust me, cher lecteurs, I have attended many of them.

Of course, it was no problem getting into the building as a nation. I had been invited and Gilbert… well, let us not dawdle on exactly which crimes Gilbert committed to enter. We needed to make a grand entrance, being such fine individuals as ourselves, and so we chose the ceiling as good place to start. The water balloons were an added extra. A very entertaining added extra, I might add. Although I thought it wise not to ask why Prusse had them on his person in the first place.

And so we found ourselves standing on the upper most window ledges in the great hall, clutching ropes that were somewhat questionably attached to the ceiling beams, a third hanging loosely at our sides. A rather impressive feat, I might add, for two men alone while remaining unnoticed by the attendees of the conference below.

"YOUR VITAL REGIONS ARE OURS!" With that war cry, Gilbert was away, swinging from one side of the hall to the other, dropping water bombs at will.

"PREPARE TO BE SOAKED WITH FRENCH GORGEOUSNESS!" I followed closely after, revelling in the feeling of the air whipping past my face and through my hair, which I could sense billowing nicely behind me like a beautiful blonde cape.

"GET DOWN FROM THERE YOU BLOODY FROG!" Ah, sweet, sweet Angleterre. His voice made me smile, if a tad vindictively.

"Bonjour, mon petit rosbif, we thought that you would be missing us, so we dropped by."

"MEIN GOTT, GILBERT! WHY ARE YOU HERE AND GET OUT IMMEDIATELY!" The Prussian merely laughed at the sound of his irate brother's voice.

"Good to see you too, West!"

We had reached the opposite side of the room and I was now scanning for the missing member of our party in amongst the dithering nations and guards, trying to figure out exactly what to do with us.

Beside a rather scared – yet still terrifyingly angry – looking little Italian, my dear Antoine was chuckling away.

"Antoine! Come and join us, mon ami! There is no trio with only two members, non?"

Shaking his head slightly, but grinning nonetheless, Espagne removed himself from Romano's death grip and made his way towards the stairs from which he could access the balcony and climb to the other window ledge where his rope was already set up.

I could hear the shouts of his precious ex-protectorate above the din of the crowd, and at one point it even reached a level of volume to match Angleterre's deafening profanity. "DON'T YOU DARE GO UP THERE WITH THAT WINE BASTARD AND THE ALBINO FREAK, SPAGNA, OR YOU CAN FORGET SLEEPING WITH ME TONIGHT!" Grabbing the water bombs that we placed beside his rope, Antoine winked at Romano, who seemed to grow even more angry – if that was even possible – than before. "THAT'S _IT_! YOU'RE ON THE SOFA!"

Soon enough, the Spaniard had joined us after making sure to get his lover on the head with a balloon. "He'll come round soon enough, mis amigos. After all, if he can take away my sex, I can take away his tomatoes just as easily."

Ah oui, mes chers, I have learnt on many occasions to never come between an irritated Italian and his tomatoes.

So the Bad Touch Trio had been reunited, and were currently hanging off ceiling beams in the House of Parliament with the whole world standing below us, perfect for target practice.

"RODDY!" Of course, Gilbert had chosen his first victim and fired before either myself or Antoine could even pick up our ammunition.

Autriche did attempt to duck, I shall give him that, but against the wrath of the Prussian Empire and former Teutonic Knights, he was no match, and the balloon burst right in his pretty, girly face. A shame, non? He is quite the beauty.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, when I get my hands on you I _swear_ you will not be able to walk for a month!"

"Love you too, Roddy!"

As Antoine had already hit his target, he gestured for me to go next, and I knew, cher lecteurs, I knew who I was going to soak.

"Angleterre~!" The look on his face in the moments before it struck was hilarious. Those bushy eyebrows of his disappearing into his messy blonde hair and his eyes widening comically. The look on his face afterwards, however, was one which I was not so keen on. And was also a bit scared of… alright, I was _very_ scared of it. I was not looking forward to the decent.

My companions, on the other hand, were having the time of their lives, and I decided not to dwell on such matters as my impending doom. Joining the revelry, I managed to hit Allemagne seconds after Gilbert did, and so the German was now incredibly wet, and incredibly furious. Well, Prusse could deal with that later… or be dealt with.

During our little endeavour to all hit Russie at once so that it would be harder for him to counterattack in whatever creepy way he was going to, I noticed little Amérique looking very smug, having avoided all the balloons, and laughing at my petit rosbif, Angleterre. Now that, mes amis, was not on. I was not having some brat mock my dear little Englishman's misfortune. Only _I_ was allowed to do that. So I decreed that said brat was to be taught a lesson. And teach him I did, mes chéris, I taught him very well. I taught him the consequences of sitting back and enjoying the pain of others – having not caused that pain in the first place.

Somewhat hypocritical of me, I must say, but this was Amérique, and he did not know his place. I, your dear and most beloved narrator, had been on this Earth far longer than this little piece of merde could even begin to imagine, and I knew where I stood. It was acceptable for me to indulge in the suffering of others, for it is known that I am a lover, not a fighter – most certainly not a coward, I assure you, mes amis – and have earned enough respect from the other nations to get away with it. He, however, was a mere runt, and had no right to watch the proceedings and take pleasure in pain. I fear I have somewhat exaggerated matters, but a little artistic license is surely allowed, non?

I pulled back my arm and propelled the water balloon harder and faster than ever before.

Bull's-eye, as they say on this sweet little Island.

After soaking the entire world we had finally run out of bombs to throw and were swinging merrily backwards and forwards from the rafters, singing a delightfully out of tune rendition of 'God Save the Queen'. As you could imagine, this did not go down particularly well with our host.

"FRANCIS BONNEFOY, UNLESS YOU WISH TO RE-ENACT THE HUNDRED YEARS WAR RIGHT NOW IN THIS VERY BUILDING – WITH REAL WEAPONS – I SUGGEST YOU REMOVE YOURSELF FROM MY CEILING AND STOP MOCKING MY NATIONAL ANTHEM! YOU SOUND LIKE A STRANGLED CAT, YOU BLOODY FROG!"

I latched onto the window sill and adorned my face with the most pathetically beautiful pout this world has ever witnessed. "But Angleterre~ You used to be fun!"

Gilbert and Antoine had also stopped swinging and were now either side of me, cheeks straining with laughter and eyes watering. "Come on, Frenchie, let eyebrows have his order!"

With that, mes amis, I was given a good, hard push from two rather strong hands on each shoulder blade. Unable to hold onto the rope much longer for fear of burning my delicate little hands, I let myself free fall. I was soon joined by a wailing idiot on each side, half crying out in joy, half in fear. I would get those bastards back, but for now I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as everything seemed to slow down around me, the air whipping at my face tingling quite pleasantly. Of course, this sensation was short lived, as I soon found myself colliding with the ground – or I would have done, had a conveniently placed British safety mat not cushioned my fall. And by safety mat, chers lecteurs, I mean Arthur Kirkland.

I would have savoured the moment of bliss being on top of mon amour, but I swiftly fell unconscious.

* * *

Waking up in a prison cell is never a pleasant experience, mes chers, and one I do not recommend to anyone. I was however sincerely grateful that this was a British prison. Trust me, mes petits bonbons, the one and only time I have ever ended up in the hands of the German constabulary taught me never to do wrong in that country again. Or at least be more careful not to get caught…

I opened my eyes onto a very dreary looking room, with grey walls and a grey floor and a grey ceiling and a grey door, and deduced that I must have been arrested. Either that or Angleterre had a secret, kinky room that he had kept _very_ well hidden from me.

There was a pounding ache in my head and I turned away from the florescent light strip above me. The movement caused me to realise two things: one – I was laying on the floor and two – my head was being supported by a rather lumpy and uncomfortable pillow.

I strained my neck up so that I could take a better look around the cell and found that the 'pillow' was actually Gilbert's back, as he was laying on his stomach underneath me. Looking down, I saw Antonio clutching my legs as he slept soundlessly on his side. Ah, just like old times, non?

The throbbing in my head refused to cease, so I resettled it on a more agreeable section of my dear Prussian's back and attempted to go back to sleep.

Alas, mes chéris, it was not to be, for seconds after I had closed my weary eyes the mound beneath me shifted with a tremendous groan.

"Scheisse, what the fuck happened? I've got the biggest headache and I don't even remember drinking anything. Was I drugged? Mein Gott, Francis, you didn't rape me, did you?"

"Even if I had, mon ami, it would not have been rape. But, non, I did not drug you."

Our conversing had awoken the Spaniard attached to my legs. "No~, Lovi, five more minutes. I'm tired, mi tomatita."

"Hé, Antoine, I am not your boy-toy. Wake up, you lazy salaud, we are in a prison cell."

With a good kick to make sure he got the message, the Spaniard released my limbs and stretched. "Oh, buenos días, amigos!"

How anyone could be so cheery after hearing what he had just been told, I shall never know. But then again, that was what came from being a pirate, non?

"Warten… what country are we in and why again?"

I was used to this by now. Every time Gilbert woke up after doing something stupid he would ask for the details of his location. He must have some sort of convenient short-term memory loss.

"We, mon ami, are currently sitting in an English prison after swinging around the House of Commons throwing water balloons at everyone attending the world summit."

It took a moment to sink in. You could almost see the little cogs turning round in the albino's head, and like magic, his eyes lit up in recognition of the circumstances.

"Oh ja, I remember now. Wow, that was fun."

"I'm glad you're so pleased with your achievements." I raised an eyebrow at his smirking face.

"Oh, come on, Frenchie! We've been through worse than a single night in a British cop shop; we'll be out before you know it. Artie will have rung our bosses by now and they'll send someone along to pick us up."

"Si, he's right, amigo."

Feeling terribly ganged up on, I sighed. "Gilbert, mon cher, I hope you have not forgotten that you don't even _have_ a boss."

"Oh." The little 'o' his mouth formed was truly adorable. "Well, West will come and get me out."

"You remember the last time we ended up in prison, non?"

He nodded.

"And do you also remember what dear Allemagne said when he came to get you out of that mess?"

"Oh scheisse! I forgot!"

"Oui, oui, I thought you'd say that."

"Ja, but why are you so pissy about it? It's not like your boss would go that far and not pick you up just because he was annoyed. You're still a _country_ for Gott's sake, they need you."

"That, mon bonbon, is where you are wrong. I also had a similar threat when I last spent the night with you two and found myself behind bars the next morning."

Meanwhile, Antoine was having a good old laugh at the two of us. "Such a shame, I guess you'll be staying here for a while!"

Just then, an officer opened the tiny hole in the door so that we could see his lips through the bars. "Alright, you lot, you've got a visitor."

Espagne grinned and ruffled our hair. "This will be my ride home, amigos, I'll see you around!"

As he got up to leave, straightening out his jacket to no avail, the door opened with a creak. Standing in the doorway was none other than Angleterre himself, bathed in sunlight flooding through a window behind him. He was crowned with a yellow halo like an angel, pristinely pressed suit hugging his body magnificently.

"Why is it that every time I try to run a nice, peaceful meeting, you three have to do _something_ to ruin it?"

"Oh, but Angleterre~ you're meeting was so dull, it needed spicing up, non?"

That was certainly not what mon petit rosbif wanted to hear right now.

"Shut it, you bloody frog. If I had my way, you'd all be locked up and the key thrown away."

"But my boss is here to come get me, si?" Antoine cooed.

"Of course not! Your bosses seem to think that you've caused enough trouble and deserve a good stretch inside, too!"

Espangne's face dropped. Gilbert and I, however, found the situation quite humorous.

"Bloody hell, not even the prospect of prison puts you off, does it?"

"Of course not, mon chéri, we are quite content to spend as much time here as it takes. After all, your 'punishment' is nothing compared to everywhere else we have been locked up."

Those eyebrows drew together in a scowl, and I couldn't help but giggle at how cute it looked.

"Well, I'll leave you to rot, then."

He turned to leave, but just before the door was closed, he peeked over his shoulder and looked me in the eye, smirking like the good, dominative pirate I knew he was at heart. "Oh, and do enjoy the food." With a maniacal laugh he was away, and I was on the floor, sobbing.

* * *

After what felt like years of torture – maybe one day I will tell the tales of what happened in that cell – we were awoken by a loud cry of, "SPAGNA YOU BASTARD GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!"

As it was, we were happily snoozing away on the hard prison bed, Gilbert in the middle on his stomach with Antoine and myself either side with our arms around him, stealing his warmth. And so, mes amis, this rude awakening was not appreciated. Not appreciated by anyone other than Espagne.

"Lovi~!"

Within seconds, the Spaniard was at the door, banging away and asking to be let out.

"Silence! Quiet, mon chéri! Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Gilbert groaned in agreement.

"But mi amigos, Lovino is here to resuce me! I knew he'd come."

"That's not what you were wailing at the top of your lungs earlier this week." Perhaps another funny story for another time, non?

"Well now he is here and I am free!"

"How lovely for you." Gilbert mumbled.

And sure enough, chers lecteurs, the little Southern Italian did indeed set our Antoine free. Much to my annoyance, and that of the disgruntled albino beneath me.

"Adiós, mis queridos hermanos~!"

"Verpiss dich, Schwein."

And without so much as an apology or a 'Sorry, Lovi, I'm going to wait here with the others until they get picked up', that betraying bastard was gone.

You may be wondering, mes chéris, why exactly our dear little Spaniard would leave his two best friends to rot in a prison cell without any edible food or other company. But what you have to understand is that we are all very selfish. As was proven a mere ten minutes later when the beautiful Autriche came to rescue Gilbert.

"DANKE, RODDY~! I'll never ever be mean to you again, I promise!" You also may be wondering why Roderich would even consider helping the crazy Prussian, but that, mes chers, can be answered by looking behind Autriche, at a most definitely concerned looking Hungarian girl, frying pan in hand.

"Guten tag, hübsche Dame, you came to rescue the awesome me, ja? I am flattered." Now Gilbert really didn't know when to stop before things went too far. In this instance, for example, he might have gotten away with simply a frown and maybe a light slap if he had left it at just the comment. However, this was Prusse, and he had to step over the line and try to kiss her cheek. Now, my dear Elizaveta is not so keen on my best friend – on the outside, that is, I am well aware of her true feelings for the former nation – and when faced with a situation she is not comfortable with, she tends to lash out. And lash out she did, mes amis. With her trusty frying pan. At Gilbert's face.

In a happy turn of events, however, Gilbird seemed to dodge away just as the blow struck, so you will be pleased to know, chers lecteurs, that he was not harmed.

The same could not be said for my beloved Prussian.

"You deserve everything you get, mon ami, for abandoning me in this dreadful place all on my own."

"Liebe dich, auch, Francy-pants!"

With no more than a wink and a suggestive smile, Gilbert walked away holding his no doubt throbbing head, leaving me all alone.

Another day passed – I will not bore you with the story of that day, mes amis, for fear you might gouge your own eyes out with the tedium – and I was no closer to my freedom. I had spoken to my boss on the phone, a very charming man with much the same tastes as your gorgeous narrator, but he had adamantly declared that he would not be responsible for me, using some quite colourful language to put his point across.

And so my next hope lay in mon petit Mathieu. But alas, he would not come, saying something along the lines of not wanting a repeat of last time. Honestly, I had no idea what he meant…

The last person on my list of people that would ever even consider coming to get me was Seychelles, although after our little… tiff… I didn't even want to _think_ about ringing her.

All I could do was sit and wait patiently for my boss to have a disaster and feel the need to have me back and I quickly began to lose any hope of ever getting out of here.

Being the gorgeous Frenchman that I am, I slumped down onto my knees and began to cry. Manly tears, mes bonbons, of course.

But just as the sun was about to set, the tiny pocket of orange light seeping through the window of my cell door was cut off, and I could hear someone clearing their throat on the other side.

The familiar sound of the metal swinging open was music to my ears and I though finally – _finally_ I had been released from this God-forsaken place where the food was either still alive or burnt to a crisp, and in neither situation having any flavour.

My tiny flicker of hope was soon diminished, though, mes amis, for the person standing in the doorway was neither my boss nor my ally. It was the very last person I expected to see.

Angleterre.

"Alright then, frog, I don't want you stinking up my prison much longer and I heard that some of the other inmates had been eying you up and I _certainly_ do not want your disgusting French diseases circulating around here."

I could have fallen down at his feet in relief, but that would have been admitting defeat, and so I stayed strong, mes chers, I stayed strong for France!

"Ah, but mes chéris, you know very well what diseases I have. In fact, you gave me most of them." I sent a cheeky wink his way and was rewarded with a blush that spread right to his ears. He was so cute~!

"That's quite enough of that, you French wanker, now come with me."

I could have stood my ground a bit longer. I could have fought my corner. I could have said that staying here meant nothing to me and that I could survive another thousand years… but of course I didn't. I wanted freedom so badly. My hair was greasy and my clothes smelt and I hadn't eaten proper food in so long.

And so, mes amis, I did the good old cowardly thing of throwing myself at his feet. "Merci~ Merci~ Merci~ Angleterre! How can I ever repay you?"

"By getting the bloody hell off my leg, you git!"

Not wanting to ruin Angleterre's generous mood, I quickly removed myself from him and ran out the door before it could be shut on my face. I continued through the station until I reached the exit. Regaining my composure, I stepped into the open and sighed.

"Freedom at last."

"Yes, quite, now bugger off back over the channel."

I turned to see my little Englishman standing beside me with his arms crossed and an adorable pout on his face. "You wound me, mon cher."

"Terribly sorry, wanker, now leave."

I placed my hand over my heart and feigned true hurt… yes, chers lecteurs, I said 'feigned'.

"But Angleterre, I would like nothing more than to spend my first moments of freedom with my favourite little Island!"

"Well go catch a plane to Seychelles, then, I'm not stopping you."

I tried not to cling onto the slight bitterness in his tone as he said that. "You know, mon petit rosbif, I meant you."

He raised one of his glorious eyebrows and scoffed. "Whatever, Frog. Just get out of here before I throw you over the channel myself."

"I would very much like to see you try, mon chéri."

A moment of silence passed between us as we merely stood on the pavement, watching the people hurry along busy streets black cabs rush back and forth. It would have been quite perfect, actually, if I had not been reminded by my growling stomach that I was hungry. And of course, this brought on other revelations, such as the fact I looked like a tramp.

"Oh, oh, oh!" I cried, "This will not do! I am disgusting!"

"You've only just noticed?" A tiny smile was playing at the corner of his lips, and I knew I was going to get my way.

He was in a good mood.

"Please, mon petit, please allow me to use your wash facilities, I cannot live much longer like this!"

"Well, if the alternative is your demise, then of course I refuse."

I could have played this game a little longer, but I would rather be clean while doing so. "Angleterre, you wouldn't want to be around me when I smell so bad, would you?"

He cringed at that. "You always smell."

"Please, mon ami, I will continue this argument when I can bear to breath."

"Fine, fine, follow me."

My spirits raised, I skipped ahead, knowing exactly where ma petite blonde lived.

* * *

There is nothing like a long, hot bath with lots of bubbles and a glass of good French wine to sooth the soul after such a traumatic experience.

Where Angleterre had got this particularly fine specimen, I will never know. The bubble bath or the wine…

"_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,  
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche~"_

Laying back in bliss, I sang out to my heart's content.

"_Voilà le portrait sans retouche,  
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens."_

The beautiful French love song brought a tear to my eye as the sound drifted up to the steamy ceiling.

"Shut the bloody hell up!"

Angleterre's voice came through the wall rather loudly, but it only made me sing with more vigour.

"_Quand il me prend dans ses bras,  
Il me parle tout bas,  
__**Je vois la vie en rose~**__."_

"I mean it, Frog, you sound like you're being castrated!"

"You know you love it, mon amour! And you know why!"

I chose that moment to emerge from the bubbles and, taking my wine, I headed for the door. Ignoring the towel hanging on the radiator, I opened the door to find a very embarrassed looking Briton rather close to where the door had previously been, a deep blush covering his face from ear to ear.

"Bloody hell, Francis, you could have at least grabbed a towel!"

Taking that as an invitation – what can I say, I take things the way I want them to be – I grabbed Angleterre and pulled him into a tight embrace, tucking his head under my chin. I whispered the next lines, holding his struggling form close to my naked body.

"_Il me dit des mots d'amour,  
Des mots de tous les jours,  
Et ça me fait quelque chose."_

I could feel my dear Englishman struggle's growing weaker, and eventually he stood still in my arms.

"_Il est entré dans mon cœur,  
Une part de bonheur  
Dont je connais la cause."_

His hands slowly found their way onto my chest, not to push me away, but to rest there, warm and gentle over my heart. When I looked down, I could see his eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown, and his eyes were firmly staring past my shoulder, but in them I saw a glimmer of what had once been. The connection we had once shared. Those beautifully sparkling emeralds held his love. And despite his expression, despite the red of his cheeks, he sang the next lines with me.

"_C'est lui pour moi,  
Moi pour lui dans la vie,  
Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie._

_Et dès que je l'aperçois,  
Alors je sens en moi  
Mon cœur qui bat."_

For a while, we stood together in silence, letting the words float around in the air around us, settling in our hearts. I tried to remember every sound, every scent, every feeling of this moment. It felt like we were living again in the past, when all of this came so easily to us. I placed a small kiss to the top of his head, nuzzling the messy hair slightly as I pulled away. And then I played a very dirty trick, mes chers.

"Je t'aime, Angleterre. You know I always have."

Within seconds I found myself on the floor, a rather persistent Englishman straddling me and attacking my lips. As always, he won our little fight for dominance in the kiss as my lips parted to allow him access. That skilful, sinful tongue worked wonders in my mouth, teasing the spots that he knew I liked. We knew each other's bodies too well, and while he was preoccupied with ravaging my face with bites and licks, I slipped my hands under his shirt and found the exact place on the small of his back that made him moan. And moan, mes amis, he did. The sound was like beautiful music to my ears as it caused vibrations through my entire being.

It was bliss, chers lecteurs, pure bliss as he worked his way down my chin to my neck, nipping at the skin like a terrier. I knew he never held back. I knew every bite and suck would bruise, and I would be marked terribly the next morning, but I cared not. I wanted him to mark me, to claim me as his little French village; I wanted the world to know I belonged to him. And although I could never have it the other way around, I wanted him to at least admit he owned me.

He needed someone to dominate, someone he could treat badly. He always has, that was why he chose myself, Gilbert and Antoine as his favourites. He hated us so much that he could be as rough as he wanted and not feel guilty. That was why he could not be satisfied with Amérique. That was something only we could give him, for he cared too much for the boy to treat him that way. I could give him one thing his dear little colony couldn't. For we all needed this, mes amis, all pirates share this same urge for a fight.

As he looked up through his eyelashes, I saw the predatory gleam in his eye that had struck fear in many a poor, unfortunate soul in the good old days of pillaging and plundering. The gleam that sent a shock wave of adrenaline up my spine, knowing there was no way back now. He was on the hunt, mes chers, and I was his prey.

And what le Royaume-Uni de Grande-Bretagne et d'Irlande du Nord hunted, he got laid out on a platter before him.

* * *

For the first time in a week, I woke up in a comfortable bed with a duvet wrapped around my deliciously warm body. I revelled in the sensation for a few minutes, before trying to roll over and feeling a rather unpleasant jolt of pain from my back side to my neck.

This and the snoring blonde man beside me reminded me of the night's occurrences.

Sure enough, as I tenderly poked my neck, I felt each and every love mark on the skin, causing me to wince into the pillow. He was such a sadistic bâtard when he wanted to be. The pain, however, was nothing compared to the feeling of complete content that was filling my brain and my heart. I peeked out at my lover once more, studying his face as he slept soundly, wondering what dreams could be racing around his mind at the current moment.

In the morning light seeping through the crack between the curtains, he looked like an angel. I have already compared him to one once in this tale, non? Well, mes amis, I can truly say that he must have been sent down from heaven. No one could look so divine with such eyebrows. They managed to complement his face perfectly, and in his unconscious state, they were relaxed and there was not a line on his face. He was so pale he looked almost ethereal amongst the pure white sheets draped over his torso. His blonde hair falling into his closed eyes.

I reached across, doing my best to grit my teeth against the soreness in my butt and swept the blonde veil covering his eyelids aside. He sighed gently and my breath caught in my throat.

But it was not the gorgeous noises that were coming from Angleterre that had caused my reaction.

I could see the bedside table over his sleeping form and there was a picture on it. A picture of the one closest to Angleterre's heart.

Amérique.

He was smiling that ridiculously overzealous grin of his and holding his national flag as if he ruled the world. Which, when you think about it, mes chéris, is almost truth nowadays. I couldn't bear to look at the photo any longer, finding it made me sick to my stomach, and so scanned the room for something else to concentrate on.

But all I could find, chers lecteurs, were pictures and pictures of that grinning American. On the wall, on the dressing table, on the chest of drawers, his face was everywhere I looked. Every stage of his life had been recorded in photographs and placed around this room.

As if to rub salt into my wounds, Angleterre chose that moment to sigh his name.

The tears built up behind my eyelids, I could not stop the crushing of my heart. He had moved on, I had not. I had been replaced.

Despite the lust and craving for complete domination, Angleterre needed someone who could look after him, too. I understood that now. Amérique was strong and gentle; he would treat mon petit rosbif how his delicate state required now. For I had to remember, mes bonbons, that despite how he acted the night before, Angleterre was not a powerful pirate anymore. He did not own the seven seas, nor could he control the whole world with a single click of his fingers. He was weak, now. He needed protecting.

Because countries change, mes amis. Being a nation means that you can become a different person in a matter of months. Love, true love is impossible, for we change preferences too often. New powers rise, and new countries are discovered, and our hearts find new lovers to pass the time with. That is what I had always tried to tell myself, mes chers, but at times like this, when gazing at the man I had been in love with for at least two millennia, it was hard to convince myself. I knew I just had to keep going, knowing that one day I would find someone, too, and that inevitably Angleterre would lose interest in Amérique, just as he had with so many other partners before. Because our lives are built around international relations, and sometimes, they are out of our hands. So who can say what the future will hold? Who can say who my heart shall set itself on next? Or who Angleterre will share his bed with next?

But I held onto what little assurance I had, chers lecteurs, I held on to every ounce of hope I could find. The knowledge of what we had between us had and always will carry me through. For there is something that no colony can share with their ex-master, millennia of friendship. Of course, your definition of friendship may differ slightly to mine, for when I say 'friendship', mes bonbons, I mean years of wars and alliances and arguments and ceasefires and mindless shouting across the channel and kicks and punches and kisses and touches and sex and a shoulder to cry on. Something that remains constant in this world of change. There will always be a bond between us. We may not have an official 'special relationship' with each other. But ours was too complicated and strong to be written down on a flimsy piece of paper. Non, mes chers, we were connected on a level far deeper than any others. We had seen the rise and fall of empires, the growth of the modern world, thousands of eras, fashions, languages, peoples, nations, things we could not even begin to explain to anyone who hadn't shared the experience with us at the time.

Nothing could stop the hate between us. Nothing could stop the love. Even if it only amounted to one night stands every so often, the fact that it was possible was a wonderful thing.

I knew what was coming, and so I shouldn't have felt so hurt. But, mes amis, we cannot prepare ourselves for such things. If we could, the world would be an emotionless place indeed.

"Get the fuck out of my house, Francis."

And that was how I was greeted by my waking lover as he steeled his face into the furious expression that the world sees every day and turned to face the opposite wall.

I made no move to leave, so he shouted. "I said get out!"

It took all of my will power not to break down right there and then. It took all of my resolve to walk away without a fight. I put on my clothes and opened the door. "Au revoir, mon amour."

Without another word, I left.

I didn't see the single tear that rolled down his cheek.

_Vôtre, Francis Bonnefoy x_

_**AN: Wow. That was more angsty than I was anticipating… Sorry about that, guys, the next one will be pure humorous fluff to make up for it. ^^**_

_**Translations:**_

_**Okay, I tried to write them all here, but the list was too long, and to be honest, O brothers, I could not be bothered to go through all of them. So if you really need to know, use Google translate or ask in a review, I will be happy to answer any questions you have.**_

_**Reviews are greatly appreciated and I promise to reply to them all.**_

_**The next tale to be told: The Greatest Torture of All. See you there! ^^**_

_**Yours, iFluffRaver x**_


	2. Just a Boy

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**_

_**AN: Okay, so here's more FrUK for you lovelies. **_

_**Rating up to M. O.o…**_

_**Oh, and by the way, please excuse the time line in this. Hetalia being Hetalia, England and France are shown to be small for the majority of history, and I have no idea when they grew up. In this, please assume France is part of Gaul (had to make an OC there, guys), and England is Britannia the first time they meet – which is before the Roman Empire reaches Western Europe.**_

Memoirs of a Frenchman II

Just a Boy

Angleterre's reputation as the 'whore of Europe' – sometimes replaced with 'the world' by the more imaginative and vindictive among us – is one that he openly admits to, and even at some points, I think feels quite proud of. Therefore, it is a most celebrated thing, chers lecteurs, at world meetings or parties that require our presence. Many a backhanded comment and snide remark are exchanged between ignorant nations not so subtly.

But they are just that, mes amis, _ignorant_. One such as your gorgeous narrator is not so low as to remind the fiery little Englishman of his endeavours at every possible opportunity.

I have been known on occasion to joke with mon cher rosbif about his past, piratical self, after all, we have all been around the block a few times, non? And even, at times, I have taken advantage of his slack standards – making and losing many a bet. But I am not so heartless that I take the joke too far. I am well aware of what is considered taboo; of which occasions he would rather not be reminded of. Of course, I may end up treading on his toes more often than I would like, but that is just his fragile emotional state being its usual… what was the word Japon used, again? Ah, I remember: _'tsundere'_.

Oui, I believe it fits him quite well.

And indeed, this topic onto which I have strayed also has relevance to the original purpose of this tale.

Angleterre's delicate emotional condition – and his lust for power, sex and shiny things.

* * *

He was just a boy.

A poor, lonely, frightened little boy when I first found him wandering the dale at sunset. I don't recall the exact year, but it was shortly before the Roman Empire conquered what is now known as Western Europe, when I was in the care of my dear old grandfather, Gaul.

What I do recall – in painful detail – was the lost expression on his rosy face, yet to lose its immature chubbiness. His eyes, as green the rolling hills that surrounding him, stared off into a distance I could not see, glazed over in thought, imagination – and what I learned to be sorrow.

Being still a relatively young nation myself, I held all of the childish curiosity of one that does not yet know that the world is round or that grass is not for eating – a phase I can assure you that I quickly grew out of. I had not yet experienced the company of others apart from my grandfather, Luxembourg, Belgique, Suisse and little nord de l'Italie, whom I considered family. And so, when I approached the strange blonde being, clothed in a cape and sporting a rather impressive pair of eyebrows, I saw nothing wrong with how I leaned up into his face and spat out the first words that came into my wandering little mind.

"Who are you?"

What I received has probably been re-enacted thousands of times over the years of our 'friendship'. A sharp backhanded slap to the face and some angry spluttering.

"Don't be so rude, boy! Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

Well, even I, in my newly born and carefully sheltered state could see that he could hardly treat me in such a way in his position. "Do not call me boy! For you look just as young as I am!"

The other boy huffed. "I'll have you know that I've been here for quite a considerable amount of time, thank you very much."

"Oui?"

"Yes."

"So you are an old man then, non?"

And so began centuries of arguments and tactical French retreats.

* * *

It was on the sixth time I returned to suffer the torture my dear Britannia had in store for me that we actually had a mildly polite conversation.

"Why do keep coming over here? You just end up annoying me and getting thrown back over the channel."

Even at that early stage in life, I noticed the slightest hint of desperation in his tone. At the time, I had no idea what it was, but over the years, mes amis, I have learned to read Angleterre like a book, and the pitch of his unbroken voice was a tiny glimmer of hope. A hope that maybe someone wanted to be with him, because I could see back then – young as I was – that he was terribly lonely.

"Because I am tired of hearing Italie crying, Suisse shouting at him, Belgique fussing over him and Luxembourg trying and failing to get attention for himself, all the while Grandpa Gaul is trying to fight a war," I stated. "And I like it here."

If I said his expression softened, I would be lying, for Angleterre doesn't 'soften' – he sort of wilts. It sounds horribly insulting, non? But that is the best way of describing what he did.

"Oh."

I learned later on, mes chers, that this was because no one had ever wanted to be with him before.

* * *

It was the tenth time I visited him that I learned about his 'brothers'.

We were sitting side by side at the edge of one of his many forests, leaning against a giant oak tree.

"Does anyone live with you?"

My question seemed to anger him – as my questions often did – but instead of lashing out at me, he clenched his fists in the dark fabric of his robe and cursed under his breath.

"Well there's countries all around me, but when I go to talk to them, they push me away," He said, bitterness lacing his words, "I especially don't like the one up to the North. He's rude."

Of course, I instantly wanted to meet them.

But when I did, chers lecteurs, I was greeted by violence, taunts and hateful things that should not have been heard by such young ears.

Britannia stood with gritted teeth through it all, introducing us while insults and rocks were being thrown at him. But that wasn't all, oh non. On the occasion that I strayed too close to the border, Britannia had come to drag me back, only to be grabbed harshly by his 'brother' of the north and played with like some kind of toy. He caressed him, and kissed him, and bit him, and slapped him, and kicked him back to me when the fun was over. If I had known that this was their reaction, I would have stayed South with Britannia alone.

It was truly disgusting.

* * *

The higher the pedestal, the harder the fall. And the Roman Empire fell hard indeed, mes chers.

And what was left was remnants of nations scattered around Europe, looking for purpose. Looking for themselves.

I was free, at least. Gaul had long since been defeated by the might of Rome and I no longer lived with my brothers and sisters. Nord de l'Italie moved in with Autriche, sud de l'Italie moved in with Espagne – much to my displeasure – and the Holy Roman Empire was trying to get a name for himself. The others dispersed from the clutches of Rome and settled independently.

As soon as I knew I was free, I went across the channel to Britannia.

It was the thirty-second time I had done so, and I have to say that the sight that met my eyes was one of the most horrendous, heart-wrenching things I had ever seen – although I had yet to witness the worst.

My dear little Britannia, with all his pride, was kneeling, shivers more like sharp convulsions, in a pool of muddy rainwater with nothing but his trusty cloak wrapped around his shoulders for shelter from the wind that seems to constantly blow through Britain.

I noticed the water flowing red before I saw where the source was.

When he looked up at me through dripping eyelashes, his eyes were dull. The stubborn spark had disappeared, replaced with a misty veil of nothingness. The light that had shined in his days of glory had dimmed. His face and body were as white as the corners of his eye should have been, had they not been blood-shot with a fierce red.

A raucous laugh could be heard fading into the distance.

He had been so strong when the Roman Empire had looked after him. He had developed as a nation quickly, exploiting all the new inventions that the Italian brought and making his country great. But he had lost his protection. He had lost the tall, grinning Empire that treated him kindly. He had lost the guards on the wall that spanned from coast to coast, keeping the unwanted out.

I knew before he told me what had happened.

That, mes amis, was the time that Angleterre lost his virginity to the 'brother' that now sits obediently at his side, plotting a way to independence from the boy he once abused.

* * *

Angleterre was never the same again.

He kept his stubbornness, he kept his pride – shattered though it was – and he kept his eyebrows, but there were always moments where he would stare off into the distance, unresponsive to anything I did.

And he always kept me by his side.

He stayed in the south of his country for decades, never quite trusting what lay up in the lands beyond Wessex. There were many times that he would just break down into tears on my shoulder. He would never admit anything of the sort ever happened afterwards, but I remember, chers lecteurs.

Years past, and he grew stronger again. Never quite reaching what he was in the time of Rome, but he regained some of his sanity.

I could tell when he was in a good mood, because his insults would increase.

There was a point when I thought he had actually recovered completely, forgetting what had happened with Scotland, but then the Vikings came.

* * *

It was 874 AD. I remember the year exactly.

My journeys to Britain had decreased in frequency, due to Angleterre seeming more and more like his old self as the days went by. I knew he had some trouble within himself what with his country being divided into kingdoms due to his reluctance to move around the land outside Wessex, but he could cope with that.

I had only been away a week. I was only going to visit him for a short while; there were things at my home that needed to be attended to. It was meant to be a quick visit to check on how he was doing.

I mentioned earlier that I had yet to see the most horrendous thing in my life when I found Angleterre after the fall of Rome. That is because, mes chers, that was nothing compared to what Danemark did to him.

Blood.

I just remember there was blood everywhere. Thick, crimson clots among translucent veils. Angleterre was lying on his back in great pools of it mixed with water, mud and ale, limbs spread wide and unable to summon the strength to cover his modesty. Pieces of his cloak had been strewn across the road, shredded beyond recognition, and the location of the rest of his clothes remains a mystery to me to this day. There were bruises all over his body, most prominently on his arms, where definite purple fingerprints could be seen against the ghostly pale skin. His breathing was laboured and I could see from the disfigurement of his chest that quite a few ribs were broken. I'm sure there was more browning patches on his legs, but I could not see for all the blood from his behind. It ran in scarlet rivers down his thighs, dripping off at the knees onto the stained road.

People passed by and did nothing.

As I picked the mass of broken bones and ripped flesh up off the dirt, he groaned my name.

* * *

I had lost count of the number of times I had visited Angleterre by the time I returned on that fateful night.

I had not seen him since I cleaned up his wounds and laid him down to rest in his bed, for the Vikings had sought land further afield, and I was next on their hit list.

Many people have accused me of cowardice when it came to giving up Normandy to them. But I knew that if I did not give them their way, they would have pillaged and burned and treated me like they did dear Angleterre, and if that had happened, who would have been there to help him? I was the only one he could turn to, and if I became a broken wreck, he would be all alone and more vulnerable than ever.

I had prepared for every eventuality. I had come with armed guards, and open heart and anything Angleterre could possibly need to fight the Nordic bastards.

But I had not prepared for what he had become.

I was met by a scowl darker and more furious than I had ever seen – made more terrifyingly impressive by his eyebrows.

He had always regarded me with annoyance. But this aggression was nothing like the endearing irritation I had experienced throughout our acquaintance.

He was clothed in deep reds and gold, a magnificent velvet cloak draped across his shoulders, cascading down the armrests of the throne he was seated in. He was surrounded by priests and guards and lords and women, dozens of his followers swarmed around him, casting frightened glances at one another but keeping their eye line low.

"Angleterre." I greeted, bowing my head. "Long time no see, mon ami."

His eyes seemed to pierce through me, and being the cowardly Frenchman that I was, I immediately scanned for escape roots when his scowl darkened.

"I am not your friend, you vile piece of frog-sucking shit."

Of all the insults he has ever used on me, chers lecteurs, I consider that one to be the worst. The tone and language were completely unexpected.

"Non?"

"No."

An eerie silence fell on the hall and the crowds of English fidgeted while I looked up in confusion into those hard, unwavering emeralds.

I had brought help, I had brought support, I had brought friendship, and Angleterre threw it all back in my face. I felt betrayed.

"Is there any particular reason you are here?"

I disguised my hurt as best I could with my poor little broken heart pounding in my chest. "I have brought help for your fight against the Vikings."

A single eyebrow quirked in reaction. "Well then, 'friend'," He spat, "It appears you are too late."

And I was, mes chers, I was.

* * *

It is safe to say that after the events that followed our meeting, I never once caught a single glimpse of my dear, dear little Britannia. The adorable chubbiness in his cheeks had well and truly been replaced with cheekbones as defined as any Greek god you could care to imagine. He had kept his lithe figure, but gained muscle tone on his torso and shoulders to improve his stance.

'Improve' being a matter of perspective. For men cowered before his looming frame, quivered at the feet of his confident form. He was truly terrifying, chers lecteurs. He basked in fear.

And I can tell you now, mes amis, he basked in my fear that night.

Angleterre has always held a lust for domination; a need to fell powerful – especially during sex – but I have never witnessed such ferocity as I did the first time I visited him after the Vikings left.

The fire in his eyes as he pounded into me; each thrust punctuated by a slap or a punch. It drove me wild with desire, yet I knew that this was the young nation I had grown up with, hand in hand. I knew that underneath he was the same, lonely, frightened little boy that had wandered day in, day out among the grasses of his countryside. This was the boy that I had shared most of my life with.

And although I had first thought I craved them, his actions that night broke my heart.

* * *

And so it continued.

The raids, the pillaging, the thievery, the invasions, the rape, the expansion of an empire.

There was no land left untouched by the might of the British Empire. Every corner of the map was filled in. Every island recorded, every civilisation tamed and subdued. The world feared him.

The blazing colours of the Union Jack haunted every sailor's nightmares. A single mast on the horizon foretold impending doom. He was the ruler of the seven seas, travelling to the ends of the Earth, and leaving nothing standing in his wake. He held the globe in his hand.

Until the day he went too far west.

* * *

I have always thought myself a good companion for Angleterre, keeping him sane and providing a shoulder to cry on when needed, but I was never enough. I could never keep him from staring off into the distance with his eyes glazed over. I could never keep him from drinking himself into oblivion when he felt depressed. I had always known this, ever since I had first laid eyes on him. He could never keep his attention on me. There was always something else going on; a fairy flitting about on a flower petal or his beloved flying green rabbit. Every so often his gaze would flicker away and I would be reminded that I was his friend, sometimes lover and enemy. Nothing more.

I could never call myself his best friend. After all, I had abandoned him to the Vikings; I had allowed his brothers to take advantage of him. I had not stayed by his side through thick and thin. I had been a coward, and no one should rely on a coward as their best friend.

Non, there was always a void that needed to be filled within him. There was always something more he wanted. He tried to keep himself occupied with conquering the world, but he got bored too easily. He had no responsibility; nothing to firmly set his concentration on.

He needed something to look after. Some_one_ to look after.

I could never be what he needed, but Amérique could.

That annoying little brat who will never know just how much I envy him for what he has done for Angleterre. Everything he has done that I could not.

* * *

The rest of the story does not need to be told, oui? I am sure you are already well aware of how it ends. Or doesn't, as the case seems to be. For my dear Angleterre still craves his power, his control, his old domination, and that is why he still turned to myself, Antoine and Gilbert to satisfy that part of him. And alas, he will never admit to Amérique how he truly feels, and so they remain as two ignorant fools dancing around each other, neither of them willing to take the first step into the unknown void between them.

And so, chers lecteurs, I leave you to ponder my tales. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a happy ending yet, non?

_Vôtre, Francis Bonnefoy x_

_**AN: OH SCHIESSE, this one was major angsty, too. I NEARLY CRIED AND I WROTE IT. **_

_**WRY IS FRANCE-ANGST SO EASY TO WRITE? I'm sorry, guys, this little baby popped into my head so fast I just had to get it down, so the promised humorous fluff will be in the next chapter: Prison Diaries.**_

_**Yours, iFluffRaver x**_


End file.
